


sequins

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 02:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12049788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: “No,” Gary says, firmly, “absolutely not.”“Mr. Neville, please, it’s for charity,” the PR person says, in the long suffering tone of someone that has repeated the same phrase for the umpteenth time. “We aren’t asking you to take your clothes off, it’s just dinner. Mr. Carragher is doing it.”Or, in which people get to bid on an evening out with Jamie and Gary has a lot of strong feelingsfor himon prostitution.





	sequins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/gifts).



> This is for Rach! I hope you like it! Thank you for supporting me always and being a great friend and also for Jamie Carragher's autograph (how??).
> 
> This is written for the 'Desperately seeking sequins' prompt from the OPI nail polish colors challenge.

  
  


*

 

“No,” Gary says, firmly, “absolutely not.”

 

“Mr. Neville, please, it’s for charity,” the PR person says, in the long suffering tone of someone that has repeated the same phrase for the umpteenth time. “We aren’t asking you to take your clothes off, it’s just dinner.”

 

“Dinner that you SOLD me for,” Gary rages, throwing his suit jacket on in a fit and barely missing the PR person’s head.

 

“Mr. Carragher is doing it,” the PR person points out, looking exponentially more frazzled than before. Gary allows himself a measure of smugness before the words sink in.

 

“Mr. Carragher is-” Gary stops, pursues his lips, and continues coldly, “Mr. Carragher can do whatever the fuck he wants.”

 

And with that, Gary grabs his papers and hurries out, leaving the PR person gaping in his wake.

  
  


*

  
  


Gary finds Carra in the studio, chatting with the sound tech who’s adjusting his microphone. The employee's hand lingers for a beat too long on Carra’s arse and Gary’s frown deepens. The sound tech takes one look at his thunderous face and backs away with a squeak.

 

Carra notices him standing there, and for a moment, he smiles, just the slightest, in the upturn of his mouth and the crinkling of his eyes, an expression both welcoming and challenging, and Gary…

 

...hates it.

 

“Neville,” Carra says, politely. “I hear you’re back in the studio with us tonight.”

 

“Carragher,” Gary says, teeth clenched, “I hear you’re engaging in prostitution.”

 

The hinted smile disappears from Carra’s face altogether, to be replaced with a frown. “What’s wrong with prostitution?” he says. “Sex workers are a part of our society and must be honored and protected from violence. It’s a job like any other.”

 

Gary draws himself up, narrowing his eyes. Two can play at this game. “The criminalization of prostitution,” he starts, “has lead to ideal conditions for rampant exploitation and abuse of sex workers. It’s a failing of the system, which doesn’t give enough alternative career paths, while at the same time ignoring the demand for it that exists in society.  Sex workers should enjoy the same labor rights as other workers and the same human rights as other people." 

 

“You could say,” Carra says, smirking “that paid athletes are engaging in a form of prostitution, as they sell their bodies for the entertainment of others.”

 

“Not for sexual entertainment!” Gary interjects. Carra grins.

 

“Are you saying you’ve never tugged one out to a particularly good goal?” he asks.

 

Gary feels himself flush. “Not to any of yours, that’s for sure.”

 

“I wasn’t asking about mine.”

 

“I don’t wank to own goals,” Gary concludes, firmly, then becomes suddenly aware of the pregnant silence in the studio. Looking around, he sees that everyone, from the producer to Ed standing off to the side, are watching them with a slack jawed expression. “What?” he snaps at them, and they all look away and go back to their work.

 

Turning back to Carra, he finds him watching with a frown. “It’s just for charity,” he says.

 

“Someone is going to bid on a night with you,” Gary says, stiffly, as someone comes over to touch up his makeup. “I say that sounds like prostitution.”

 

“It’s just dinner!” Carra says, accent thickening, finally losing his cool. Gary allows himself a measure of triumph, even though he’s unsure what exactly he’s won. “Aren’t you doing it too?”

 

“I still have some pride left,” Gary says, “so, no, I’m not going to let anyone bid on me.”

 

“Prude,” Carra rolls his eyes.

 

“I’m not a prude!”

 

“Okay!” Ed breaks in, his voice rising with a note of hysteria, “let’s focus on the show, shall we?”

  
  


*

  
  


The charity ball is very nice, Gary has to admit. The decorations are classic, but not too flashy, the seats are comfortable and the pasties are exquisite. There had been some waiting in the dressing rooms, and he’s set about calmly attempting to eat away his stage fright.

 

He doesn’t actually have stage fright, but he’s performing anyway. Under pressure from the higher ups, he’s signed up to have a juggling contest with Redknapp. Gary doesn’t actually know how to juggle, but he’s relying on Redknapp injuring himself going up to the stage and winning it by default. 

 

Dinner with Carragher is being advertised as the main attraction. Gary can’t fathom why. Surely, if one wanted to have dinner at some fast food joint that passes as Scouse fine dining while listening to that horrid accent, and dodging pieces of food, they needn’t pay hundreds of pounds for it.

 

Except for how the last time Gary went to dinner with Carragher, they’d gone to Gary’s restaurant, and Carragher was unflinchingly polite to the staff and they spent the whole time arguing about England teams from the sixties. It’s the most fun Gary could remember having in a while. 

 

They’d fought over the check, and Carragher had stabbed his dessert fork through Gary’s sleeve to slow him down so he could snatch it. Gary hates how attractive that was.

 

And now a dinner like that was on sale. For someone who wasn’t Gary. Not that Gary would want to spend any money on a Scouser-

 

“Oh, hey, Gaz!” a familiar voice startles him back to the present. Gary turns around, and it’s Phil, laden with a pile of what looks like clothes.

 

“Phil?” Gary says, incredulously, “what are you doing here? You don’t even work for Sky!”

 

“Oh, Carra asked me to help with his wardrobe,” Phil says, sunnily. “He didn’t tell you?”

 

“Wardrobe? You can barely dress yourself!”

 

Phil frowns. “Well, that’s rude. Can I remind you of some of the atrocities you used to walk around in?”

 

“My dress sense is impeccable,” Gary sniffs, glaring. He’s wearing a three piece, for god’s sake. Would anyone who doesn’t know fashion own a three piece suit?

 

“Really?” Phil raises an eyebrow, and Gary winces, knowing what’s coming, “how about that one tracksuit, the one with-”

 

“We don’t talk about that,” Gary says, and Phil grins smugly.

 

“Sure, Gaz,” Phil says, “I’ve gotta go now, but I’ll see you on the floor later.”

 

And he runs off, leaving Gary staring after him.

  
  


*

  
  


They’ve got Jack Whitehall running the ceremony, which is honestly a recipe for disaster already. And while Gary occasionally feels pity for him, for the curse of being an Arsenal fan, most of the time he’s just massively annoyed.

 

Luckily, as he expected, Redknapp takes a tumble while going up to the stage, rolls down into the lap of a startled old lady, and promptly twists his shoulder and can’t juggle. Gary is duly declared the winner, and Whitehall has to sulkily discard the card with all the ‘Gary Neville is a Scouser’ jokes on it.

 

They do manage to raise some money, mostly because the American members of the audience think they’re funding a Kickstarter campaign for Redknapp’s medical expenses.

 

Gary lingers backstage after. For no other reason that he really doesn’t care to socialize, and he’s already raided the pastry table. If he eats another one now, he’ll probably burst. In another ten minutes or so, though...well, all bets are off.

 

To his misfortune, he runs into a production assistant he knows from MNF. She beams at him brightly.

 

“Oh, hello, Mr. Neville!” she says, juggling her clipboard and a microphone. Gary reaches forward to help her, and she smiles at him gratefully. “Are you looking for Mr. Carragher? He’s still backstage, getting ready.”

 

“I’m not looking for him,” Gary says, quickly. The assistant gives him a knowing look and he flushes. From anger, naturally. Who is she to presume he’s here looking for Carragher? He could just be enjoying the view. He looks back onto the stage. Souness is in the middle of some vigorous lip syncing to what sounds like Madonna.

 

Okay, so maybe he’s not here for the view.

 

“Sure, Mr. Neville,” the assistant says, knowingly, “but between you and me, he’s in the third dressing room on the right. The security will let you through. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear some encouraging words from you!”

 

And then she’s gone, called to some other part of the stage and leaving Gary to stare at thin air, processing. Seemingly without his own consent, his legs start leading him in the direction she pointed him towards. 

 

The security does let him in without any fuss. Backstage is a loud mess, too hot and smelling of stage makeup and farts, velvet draped everywhere as to make it look more presentable. Gary dodges Dowie dressed in a feathered boa and not much else. That’ll take care of his nightmares for the rest of the month.

 

He heads down the hallway with the dressing room. The third one on the right has Carragher’s name on it in horrendous calligraphy that makes it read either as ‘Doornamer’ or ‘Cocker Spaniel’. 

 

Gary stands in front of the door for a moment, dredging up his courage to knock.

 

Unfortunately, at the exact moment that he’s reaching out, the door opens, hitting him in the face and flattening him against the wall. Phil rushes out with the most harrowed look on his face.

 

“Sequins!” Phil yells. “Does anyone in this theatre have any sequins!?”

 

Phil disappears down the hallway, desperately seeking some sequins, and the door swings shut behind him.

 

Nursing some new bruises and injured pride, Gary slinks back to the gala.

  
  


*

  
  


Gary stocks his plate full of new pasties and settles in his chair. He’s had to use some yellow card worthy moves to get it, but now that he has it, he’s ready to eat his pain away. Not that there’s any pain to be eaten. Gary just likes pasties is all.

 

The only downside is that he’s sitting next to a surprisingly chipper Jamie Redknapp, bandaged shoulder and ankle elevated since he’s somehow managed to injure that on the way back to his table. Gary’s not too clear on the details, but he thinks Cheryl Lloyd’s purse was involved somehow?

 

The reason Redknapp is so chipper becomes apparent, as a beaming John Barnes settles in the chair next to him with a plate stocked full of food and an ice pack, which he places on Redknapp’s ankle. He leaves his hand resting on his knee. Redknapp looks elated.

 

Gary tries to keep his attention on the stage, but Souness has just come out to do another rendition of American Pie. He looks at Redknapp and Barnes again. 

 

Redknapp is feeding Barnes a piece of sausage. They’re giggling and exchanging bedroom eyes. Gary stuffs a whole pasty in his mouth, in danger of losing his appetite. 

 

Two security guys tackle Souness and carry him off the stage. Whitehall clears his throat in the ensuing awkward silence.

 

“Right,” he says, searching for his cue cards, “I think it’s time for us to go to the evening’s main attraction,” the crowd applauds, “unfortunately, the Chris Kamara and his Amazing Show Pony Troupe couldn’t make it today,” the crowd boos, “but we’re moving right onto the bachelors’ auction!”

 

Everyone cheers. Gary takes a gulp of water to soothe his suddenly dry throat.

 

“First up,” Whitehall says, grinning, “he’s the unmistakable, unmissable, and put your earplugs in ‘cos he’ll yell your ears off, it’s the Scouse Sensation, Jamie Carragher!”

 

The lights dim and sultry music starts playing. If Gary was more familiar with RnB music, he would recognize it as Ginuwine’s hit single “Pony”, popularized by the movie Magic Mike XXL. As it stands, he just tries to focus on breathing evenly and not choking on his tongue, as Carra enters the stage.

 

He looks good. Really good.

 

The suit is perfectly tailored to his figure, and all black, paired with a black shirt and a tie that has little sequins on it. They catch the light, reflecting in the half-dark enticingly. Gary’s attempts to sink under the table are unsuccessful.

 

Carra looks like a handsome middle aged gentleman. The kind you wouldn’t mind taking home with you. If he didn’t open his mouth, he’d probably be an excellent date. 

 

The music cuts off, and Carra does a little twirl, obviously reveling in the screams of the crowd. It appears that several middle aged, or even not so middle aged rich ladies are having similar thoughts to Gary. And that’s pretty scary.

 

“Alright, little pony, settle down, settle down,” Whitehall says, amused. Carra grins at him and throws a few roses into the crowd. One somehow makes it all the way to the table where Gary is sitting, hitting Redknapp directly in the eye. 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Jamie Carragher,” Whitehall announces. “Are you ready?” Carra nods. “Bidding starts at a hundred pounds!”

 

A heavily bejeweled hand immediately shoots up. “We have a 100!”

 

“200!” “300!” “We have 500 pounds, ladies, and gentlemen!” 

 

“600.” “700.” “800 pounds! Surely this handsome mouthy lad is worth more than that?”

 

“1000!” “1500!”

 

An older woman near Gary’s table raises her hand. Her golden rings catch the light. “4000!” she shouts.

 

There’s a beat of shocked silence before everyone applauds. “We have 4000 pounds!” Whitehall yells. “Is anyone going to go higher?”

 

Silence.

 

“4500 pounds?” Whitehall asks.

 

Silence. 

 

“4000, then. Going once?...Going twice? So-”

 

Gary’s hand shoots up, still holding a pasty. “5000!” he yells.

 

“What’s this?” Whitehall says as the hall fills with whispers. “A gentleman from the back bids 5000!”

 

The old woman from the next table frowns at him. “5500!” she yells.

 

“6000!” Gary yells back, getting into the spirit of things.

 

“6500!” 

 

“8000!” 

 

The whispers grow louder. The woman settles into her seat, frowning. Up on the stage, Carra’s mouth is a perfect ‘o’ of surprise.

 

“8000 pounds from the gentleman in the back! 8000 from the...is that Gary Neville?” Whitehall says.

 

Gary attempts to sink under the table again, the reality of what he’s just done sinking in for him. 

 

“8000, going once!” Whitehall yells, visibly delighted. “Going twice! Sold, to Gary Neville! Come up here to collect your prize, big boy!”

 

Gary sighs deeply and gets up, leaving his plate of pasties behind. He makes his way up the stage as the whispers grow louder and louder. Finally, he’s standing on the stage next to Carra. He doesn’t look at him, focusing on Whitehall’s smug pasty face instead.

 

“Are you satisfied with your purchase, Mr. Neville?” Whitehall asks, grinning, and sticking the microphone into Gary’s face.

 

“He better splurge on dinner,” Gary mutters, eliciting an uncertain laugh from the crowd. Luckily, he’s saved from any further questions as a very drunk Souness attempts to invade the stage again, warbling about how he’s ‘feeling like a material girl.’

 

In the confusion, both he and Carra leave the stage. They don’t touch and they don’t talk, and Gary keeps looking at him but Carra doesn’t look back once. 

 

The dressing room is marginally quieter than the rest of the theatre. They come in, and Carra starts immediately stripping off the sequined suit. First, goes the jacket, and the tie. Gary looks away, mouth dry and face flushing. 

 

He’s seen a thousand guys strip over the course of his life. It’s not as attractive as it may seem from the description. But there’s something about stealing glances at Carra in the mirror that’s got him like a stumbling teenager again.

 

Carra dresses in his plain clothes. He still looks good, if not as sequined. 

 

He finally meets Gary’s eyes in the mirror.

 

Gary opens his mouth without knowing what will come out. A joke? An apology? A vicious combination of words that will guarantee no way to salvage their friendship, leaving Gary safe and alone, with no one to challenge his mundane busy existence?

 

“Have you eaten?” is what comes out at the end.

 

Carra stares at him. “That’s what you’re going to say?”

 

“There’s a good fish and chips spot just down the road from here.”

 

“...alright.”

  
  


*

  
  


There’s still some condensation left on the bench and it seeps through Gary’s pants when he sits, trying to juggle his hot bundle of food.

 

“Remember when this used to come wrapped in newspaper?” Gary says before he remembers that it’s awkward.

 

“Yeah,” Carra says, popping a chip into his mouth and chewing. “You can still get it in some shops down near the Mersey. They say it’s authentic or something.”

 

“It’s a health hazard that’s what it is.”

 

“So what? You’re saying that Scouse papers are dirtier than Manc newspapers?” Carra raises an eyebrow, and Gary allows himself a smirk at the invitation to banter in his words.

 

“They’re all pretty dirty, but the Sun is the dirtiest,” Gary says, and they both spit out into the road in unison.

 

“I’d never eat anything wrapped in the Sun,” Carra says, and they spit again.

 

“Wouldn’t want to catch the racism and general stupidity of anyone reading the Sun,” Gary says, and they spit again.

 

“Can we stop talking about the Sun?” Spit. “I’m running out of saliva.”

 

“Oh, right, sorry.”

 

They eat the rest of their meal in silence. The chips sit heavy on top of the pasties in his stomach, but they’re good anyway, greasy and warm.

 

Wiping his fingers on a napkin, Carra turns around to study him. “You know,” he says, and his mouth is shiny with grease and spit, and Gary is still so attracted to him, “if you wanted to do dinner again, you could have just asked. I would have said yes.”

 

“Oh,” Gary says.

 

“Instead, you decided to bid on me like a cheap prostitute,” Carra continues, pleasantly.

 

“Not cheap,” flies out of Gary’s mouth.

 

Carra laughs. “You’re right. 8000 a night isn’t a bad fee,” he looks thoughtful, and Gary flushes at the word choice.

 

“I think that’s a premium rate,” he says, for lack of anything better.

 

“You think I’m premium rate, Neville?” Carra says, grinning, and Gary knocks his knee against him, muttering.

 

There’s a beat of silence. Carra sighs. “For fuck’s sake,” he says, leans in to grab Gary by his skinny tie and pulling him into a rough kiss. 

 

There’s nothing romantic about it, just their mouths clashing together and Gary too stunned to react, but it makes Carra’s point well enough.

 

“Oh,” Gary says.

 

“Yeah,” Carra says, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants, “well, I’ll see you around. Make sure you call me for that dinner. We can make it a charity thing, or something.”

 

And then he’s gone, halfway down the street before Gary realizes what’s happening.

 

“Carra, wait!” he chases after him. Carra actually speeds up, the bastard, forcing Gary to push his body. He grabs onto Carra’s jacket sleeve when he catches up, doubling over to catch his breath.

 

“Wait,” he says, between breaths, “just wait for a second.”

 

And then he presses Carra into a shadowed corner by someone’s garden fence and he kisses him, makes it as gentle as he can, fighting not to laugh dizzily at the noise Carra makes. 

 

“We’re staying in the same hotel, you berk,” Gary says after he pulls back. “You should have thought of that before you decided to make your dramatic exit.”

 

Carra huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes. They walk to the hotel and they don’t kiss again, but their shoulders brush together as they walk, and Gary can’t stop fucking smiling for even a second.

 

*

 

Gary wakes up the next morning with sequins stuck in the folds of his clothes and to an 8000-pound bill on his phone, and he can’t even find it in himself to be mad. 

  
  


 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://neyvenger.tumblr.com/)


End file.
